


Far Gone, Far Gone

by firecat



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Clothing Kink, Crossdressing, Disguise, Erections, F/M, Fantasizing, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Erections, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Secret Crush, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, Soldiers, Taverns, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firecat/pseuds/firecat
Summary: The King's youngest daughter used to be an army officer. Now she must take on the role of Lady, and travel to a neighboring kingdom. Her faithful servant-soldier, now in the role of Knight, travels with her.Each keeps a secret from the other.On the road, they are beset by robbers and wounded. They must use a healing balm with an unusual side effect. They may not be able to keep their secrets any longer.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23
Collections: Yes Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BetweenStarshineAndClay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenStarshineAndClay/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this little treat!

“You have tended to my wounds, my batman…I mean, my knight. But you also are injured. Let me now tend to your hurts.”

Rowland shudders. He’s still trembling from the feelings that poured over him as he tended his Captain’s cuts and bruises. 

Ministering to her had required him to take off her clothes. The flowing, iridescent raiment she was now to wear whispered as it slid from her body. He had wished she could wear _him,_ and he could touch her all over as her garments did. 

Then he had put his hands on her bare body to examine and bathe her wounds. Listened to the tiny gasps of pain she tried to stifle. Tried not to look at her beautiful eyes, brimming with tears from the pain. Tried not to lean down and press his lips to her soft, red mouth. 

They had escaped the robbers who attacked them on the road. They were hidden in an abandoned shack, safe for now, but must continue their journey soon.

“My injuries are nothing, my Captain,” he says. 

“We must call each other ‘Lady’ and ‘knight’ now,” she reminds him. “And your wounds are not nothing. I can see that well enough. I command you to submit to treatment.”

Thus he has no choice but to obey. He draws closer to her, where she is wrapped against the foggy chill of the forest in thick sheepskin. 

“Bring the bandages. Now, disrobe so I can look at your wounds.”

Rowland is afraid to disrobe. One of the wounds is on his upper thigh. If she sees it, she will also see his desire for her, which only his stiff leather armor can hide.

“It is not fitting that you should minister to me,” he protests.

“We have no choice,” she says. “If I do not, you might fall ill. The Dupani emissaries were adamant that I must not travel alone. I do not understand the way they think, but there you have it. Now, disrobe. I know it’s distasteful, but the sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

He wants to argue with her choice of the word “distasteful,” but he sees that might lead him to reveal what he must not.

Rowland takes off his leather armor. His undergarments are soaked with blood. He starts to take them off too, but she stops him.

“The cloth is clinging to the wounds. Let me.”

He can do nothing but submit to her hands. They ease the fabric away from his skin. Gently probe the extent of his wounds. Clean the blood from his skin with a cool, moist cloth. 

He tries to contain his desire for her, but it burgeons, hard. 

His Capt— Lady must see this, when she removes the clothing there and cleans the wound on his thigh, but she says nothing.

He puts his breeches back on as soon as his skin is dry. She covers herself again with the sheepskin. They rest for a time. Gradually his desire fades to its usual simmer. However, he is close to despair over his failure to protect her on this strange and perilous journey.

“Why can you not travel alone, my— my Lady?” Rowland asks at length. 

He thinks on all that led up to the circumstances they find themselves in now.

First came the pestilence, which killed so many, even nobles.

Then the raids on the southern border. The small kingdom’s army struggles to contain them.

Thus the King of Maddox undertook alliance with the kingdom of Dupan to the north.

Dupan’s strange condition for the alliance: a marriageable royal daughter of Maddox to serve as — as a _hostage,_ later to be wed to a Dupani prince, should the alliance hold. 

She is to be “virgin.” When the emissaries explained what that meant, it sent the nobles of Maddox into an uproar. A woman who had never performed that specific sexual act? Why did they care about that? Granted, it could get her with child, but only if she chose it and stopped taking the herb. 

This concept was just as inexplicable as the rest of Dupani culture, in which men and women lead almost completely separate lives. 

“As I understand it, if I travel alone, the Dupani will assume that I am no longer ‘virgin,’” his Lady explains. “They believe women to be weak and vulnerable and sexually irresistible, thus they think a woman alone would certainly be taken in that particular way, whether she wills it or no.”

“That makes no sense,” says Rowland. In his experience, women are anything but weak and vulnerable, and it is more often young men who need rescuing from sexual exploitation.

“It does not make sense to me either,” says his Lady. “I hope I may discover the cause of this weakness among Dupani women and cure it. But, for now, I must appear to abide by their rules.”

Rowland remembers her shock when she learned what would be demanded of her. He had found her in the training ground, furiously practicing her sword forms, weeping and near exhaustion. 

“At thirteen I chose to be trained in combat because I had no interest or aptitude for the spousal arts,” she cried to him. “I have no skills for running a household. Or, gods forbid, _entertaining._ How can betrothal be required of me now? Besides, I am twenty-two! I’m far too old to be getting married!”

“Why have they chosen you, then?” Rowland asked, as perplexed as she.

“After the pestilence I am the only royal female who fits the ‘virgin’ criteria!” she said. “The birth control herb affects my combat performance, so I do not take it, and I have not experienced that act. I had no idea that act was so popular!”

Despite her protests, the King was adamant. Travel to Dupan, she must.

Maddox could spare her only one protector on the journey, and she chose her batman. Only now he was to be called her “knight.” It was some special Dupani category of armsman, one who had chosen to forswear sexual acts in loyalty to his Lady. Why were they so obsessed with sexual acts? Rowland hadn’t forsworn them, but he hadn’t had a sexual partner for several years. It had caused him some embarrassment among the ranks, when stories of pleasure were shared. The fact was, he wanted no one but her. And that must remain a secret. 

“We must speak of another matter now,” his Lady says. “A poisonous vine grows around these parts, and robbers often use its oil on their weapons. The poison is not fatal, but it can be very painful and debilitating.”

“What are we to do?”

“Nobles carry a liniment that is a powerful antidote to many poisons. We can use it. But—“

He interrupts her, forgetting his manners. “How is it I know not of this?”

“It is a great secret, lest our enemies learn of its healing properties. And—“

He interrupts again. “Can we not wait until we know we are poisoned?”

“No, it must be administered before effects set in. We need to use it now.”

“My Lady, tell me how it is to be done.”

“There is something you should know first.”

“My Lady?”

“The liniment can sometimes increase sexual desire. When this happens, the desire must be attended to or sickness will follow.”

Rowland is momentarily dizzy. How will he stand it if he feels _more_ desire to touch her? 

He remembers the first time he felt that desire.

He had known her since her induction into the army, serving as one of her instructors when she was a young cadet, and as her batman when she became a junior officer. At first his feelings for her had been familial, as an older brother or uncle.

The other desire had appeared after she passed out of her teen years, and her face lost its childlike roundness. He felt it when she put on her Captain’s uniform for the first time. So crisp, contouring the curve of her hips. She tucked her hair up under her cap, and held her sword straight, and practiced the stern face an officer must present to the world. 

He had not slept that night. His intimate parts had been sore the next day from all the attention he had given them, attempting to quench the flame. 

The flame burns in him still. And he had never allowed her to guess. But he fears she has guessed now. 

To make matters worse, something about the new raiment she wears, required of a Dupani lady, makes him burn more deeply. The shimmering garments catch the light in strange ways, hinting at her curves. And they are open at the bottom — a style unknown in Maddox. Knowing her strong, capable soldier’s body is under them, hidden, but so easily exposed should one simply lift the hem… He knows not why, but it maddens him. 

He must not use the liniment. Must not let her see his desire. 

And yet he must, for he is her protector.

“My faithful Rowland, if these effects come upon me, are you willing to attend to me? Of course such acts are forbidden — as recreation — between soldiers of different rank, but this would be an emergency.”

He wants to utter a thousand words of praise and eagerness, but as he is sworn to do her bidding, his answer is prefigured.

“Yes, my Lady.”

He is thankful that she does not ask any more questions. Or make any similar offers toward him. He might not be able to hold his tongue. 

“Bring me my satchel,” she says.

His Lady takes a small glass vial out of a hidden pocket of the satchel. The liquid within is a rich purple and shimmers softly.

“Rub a small drop on each of my wounds,” she says, and she opens the sheepskin she is wrapped in. She is clothed in a Dupani sleeping garment called a shift. It is simple, translucent, open at the bottom. She pulls it up to her neck to allow him access to her skin, the wounds on her stomach and below her left breast. 

He swallows hard as she unselfconsciously reveals her body to him. 

“These Dupani costumes are convenient,” she says in a joking voice. “No fussing with buckles and breeches.”

She had to go and remind him.

Somehow he manages to administer the liniment without succumbing to his desire to spread his hands on her and move them all over her sweet body.

“And now I will do the same for you,” she says, pulling down the shift again. “You must contend with the breeches, though.”

“Let me do it myself, my Lady,” he begs.

She raises an eyebrow, but merely says, “Very well.”

The contents of the vial smell intoxicating. He turns his back to her and, opening his breeches as little as possible, administers the stuff as best he can. The drop he puts on his thigh makes him tingle between his legs. 

“We need rest,” says his Lady. “We have only the one sheepskin now, so come under it with me. Let me lie against your back so I can keep warm. If you get cold during the night we can trade places.”

When they are both under the sheepskin, his Lady quickly falls asleep. He cannot even begin to think about sleeping. Her breasts under the thin shift press against his back. Her thighs lie behind his, her stomach is warm against his backside. Her steady breaths stir the hair at the nape of his neck. He lies with his hands squeezed between his legs, trying to hide his stiffness more than the breeches allow, and to relieve the ache of it. 

If he is affected by the liniment, he has no idea. His longing had already reached a fever pitch before she even mentioned the it. From seeing and touching her sweet flesh, tending her wounds. From feeling her hands on his bare thigh, so close to…

His Lady moans and wriggles against his back.

He squeezes himself harder, holds his breath so as not to give voice to the answering moan in his own throat.

Her hands spread out against his back and begin moving, stroking across the hard expanse of muscle and bone. Her touches are so warm and enticing.

Her breathing is still regular and steady, as when she sleeps. 

Rowland breathes again, and tries to mimic that steady rhythm. Hopes that his Lady will believe he’s asleep. 

One of her hands moves lower, its warmth at the small of his back, then over his breeches, tracing the swell of his buttock and the lines of his hip. 

He again holds his breath until he hears his blood rushing in his ears. The soft palm encounters his forearm, covering his hardness. The fingertips prod gently, trying to slide underneath.

He fears he will erupt just from this.

The hand is moving back up his body now, along his side, and the arm wraps around his waist, the hand covering his navel, where it lies still. 

He breathes again, shakily, trying to refill his lungs with enough air. 

The hand moves again, up his torso. Her fingertips graze over his nipple, and before he can stop himself, he groans.

He starts shuddering then and can’t stop.

“My…my Rowland,” he hears his Lady whisper. “Are you cold?”

“No, my Lady” he responds. 

“Do you feel feverish?”

“I— I do not feel ill.”

“My hands hunger for your skin,” she murmurs.

He is silent, still shaking all over. Her hand moves across his chest again and again. 

“Is this the effect of the liniment?” he asks at last.

“I do not know,” she says, and presses her lips to the nape of his neck, forcing a gasp from his lips.

“I have a confession to make,” she whispers.

“My Lady?” is all he can say.

“I have long hungered for you.” Her hands continue to move on his skin. “I have yearned to see you. To touch you. Perhaps the liniment emboldens me. But it is not the cause of this…desire.” 

Another wordless sound escapes him.

“You...you desire...have desired...me?”

The groan that comes out of her mouth all but shatters him. 

“How many times have I lain in bed alone, my hands between my legs, in a waking dream of you. Your beautiful body. Wanting…”

Her hand moves to touch his cheek.

“What do you think of at such times, my Lady?” he dares to ask.

“I imagine your hands, so deceptively slender, but so strong, clasped around mine, then moving on my body. Your clever fingers, teasing between my legs, instead of mine.

“I imagine that you take your fill of me,” she whispered. “Move inside me. Your long thighs press mine apart. My hands cling to your back. The muscles slide under your skin, pushing you deep into me.

“I think of my hand tangled in your long, raven curls. I cannot look at your face, its softness, so like a woman’s, without imagining your smile and the touch of your sweet, flexible lips.

“But all that is as nothing compared to what I took from you today. The power I felt when I had your bare body under my hands. When I felt the tiny flinches you made as I cleaned your wounds.

“And oh, what I saw between your legs. So much... _more_...than I had imagined. So long, so hard. How did I keep from wrapping my hands around it, kissing it, right then and there? I shall never know.”

She stops speaking, but she breathes hard, and it’s as if he can taste her need. 

“My Lady, you may have of me what you desire.“

“I wish it only if you wish it also.”

Rowland moves suddenly, and then he is on top of her, caging her body between his forearms. She gasps loudly. 

“I wish it, my Lady,” he whispers hoarsely. His pelvis sinks down against hers and he presses his hardness against her. Just for a fleeting moment. “I have long wished it. I will wish it until my dying breath.” 

Is it the medicine that loosens his tongue? He does not know and perhaps will never know, but his need pours forth.

“I wish to give all of myself for your use and pleasure. My body. My skills. My heart. My mouth, my hands, my manhood. I wish to take my fill of you every night. I wish to feast on you; I wish you to feast on me, until the chamber in which we lie knows nothing but our cries of delight in each other, from dusk to dawn.”

His lips press against her forehead.

“But, my dear, we know not how the medicine is affecting us, whether your desire will change on the morrow. I would never do anything to harm you. Anything that might mark your precious body. Anything you might wish undone.”

She draws a deep breath and hisses it out as her body shudders.

“My Rowland, I so burn for you. Yes, you must not enter me, as much as I long for it. But I would touch you with my hands and mouth, and I would that you touch me.”

“Command me. Use me. How may my hands and mouth please you?”

“Kiss me,” she says.

Rowland rolls to his side and pulls her against him. His forefinger touches her chin. His mouth softly touches hers. His heart feels like it will explode out of his chest. 

And she wants more.

She deepens the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth. As he moves his tongue against hers, something surges through them both. She pushes at him, rolls him, and then her body is on top of his, pressed against him, and she’s drinking pleasure from his mouth. 

She breaks away long enough to gasp “Touch me,” and swallows his assent as her tongue once again seeks his. 

His hands find her hair, not tucked into her cap now, but cascading down her back. He cups her cheeks to draw her mouth harder against his. His fingers stroke her tender throat, the shells of her ears. He spreads his hands against her back, over the shift, making long slow strokes, at first ending at the small of her back. Then moves them lower, until he is cupping the soft mounds of her ass, kneading them. 

She spreads her legs, straddling him, hitching the shift up so she sinks down bare against the hardness in his breeches and writhing against him, then pulling away with a curse of frustration. 

“Let me bring you relief, my Lady,” he whispers. “Let me use my tongue between your legs as I’ve been using it in your mouth.”

She crawls up his body.

She soon comes undone, with soft cries of pleasure, kneeling over him with her legs apart as he moves his tongue vigorously, licking her where she most craves to be touched. 

She shudders and collapses into the sheepskin. 

He jealously watches as her hands move to where his tongue had been. She strokes herself, then her fingers slide into her, where he may not enter. He kisses her as she brings herself to another apex, moaning his name into his mouth.

Remembering the way she tasted and felt on his tongue would have been more than enough to fill his dreams for years to come. But she’s not finished using him. 

“I want you to feel pleasure like you have just given me,” she says. “Let me touch and kiss you.”

“As you wish, my lady,” he says, although what he would say, were he allowed to speak his mind fully, would keep the cloistered copyists busy for decades.

“Show yourself to me,” she says. 

He shudders with excitement, and fear, and desire. He unlaces his breeches and uncovers himself. She gasps, and wraps her hands around his rigid length, causing him to cry out.

“Show me how I may please you,” she demands. 

He wraps his hand around the shaft, stroking it, pulling, teasing the tip with his fingers and palm. “This is what I do each night, when I am yearning for you,” he says. 

“What do you imagine as you do this?”

“I imagine that my hands are yours. I imagine that you’re kissing it. Taking it into your mouth.” He moans just thinking about it. “I imagine you suckling it, _oh gods,_ like a babe suckles its mother’s tit.” 

She ducks her head toward him. The little shack fills with the sounds of her sucking, and his cries.

“Stop, I beg you,” he says after far too short a time. “I might release into your mouth.”

“You do not want to?” she says. “But doesn’t it feel good? To come while you’re being...suckled.” 

“Yes! I do, I do! But you might find it distasteful.”

“Do you dislike what you tasted of me earlier?”

“No by all the gods, my Lady, you taste like ambrosia.”

“My knight, my Rowland, please let me taste your ambrosia.” The sucking sounds start again.

“As my Lady commands,” he gasps. 

Seconds later, he does.


	2. Chapter 2

They wake shortly before dawn, wrapped tight in each other’s arms. The memories of their mutual pleasuring are just under their skin, and they urgently take each other again. 

“Has the liniment worn off?” Rowland wants to know.

“I know not,” his Lady says. “I still burn for you.”

“And I for you,” he gasps.

“How I love this feeling,” she says, laughing. “Only to look on you now. It tastes of freedom.”

They must continue their journey, and they try to make as much haste as the horses can tolerate. After half a day, they stop at an inn to rest their horses and take food and drink.

The tavern is full. There is only a little table and a tiny bench in a dark corner away from the fire. He fetches ale and sustenance. There’s not enough room for them to sit side by side, so he stands by her. 

“Sit, my knight,” his Lady says.

“There is not enough room, Lady. I do not wish to crush you.”

He’s shocked when she grips the front of his leather overshirt and pulls. He bends down. Her mouth is by his ear.

“I long to be crushed under you,” she whispers. “But if I cannot have that, beside you. Sit close and let me feel the heat of your body.”

“My lady, the liniment must still be affecting you.”

“Perhaps. I care not. Sit, my knight, I command you.”

He sits, so close that she’s almost in his lap, and feels himself stiffen again with desire for her. Her scent, so intoxicating. The little rustling sounds her foreign raiment makes as she moves.

And then he feels her hand between his legs. Exploring and stroking and squeezing. 

“Is this _hardness_ because of me?” she whispers at him, wickedly.

“Yes, my Lady. Because I can feel the heat of your body. Smell your sweet breath.”

He sees thoughts spinning in her head. “Ever since I became Captain, you have kept your distance from me, unless I needed assistance. Is that why?”

He can only speak the truth. “Yes, my Lady. I feared you would be shocked or revolted if you knew.”

“And now that you know I’m not?”

“My lady, it is so much worse for me. To be near you, to be _hard,_ knowing you want me. It is worse in the sweetest way possible.”

She’s fumbling between his legs then…tugging at the laces on his breeches.

“My Lady?!”

“I wish to make you feel better, my faithful knight.”

“Not here, I beg you. We might be discovered.”

“I want to touch you here, secretly, under the table.”

The laces are free, and her hand touches the bare flesh of his cock. 

“My Lady, your reputation...”

“None know us here. If they see what I am doing to you, they will see a soldier with his whore. That’s always what they see when a woman is under the table, pleasuring a man with her mouth.” She chuckles. “Or so my old nursemaid used to say!” 

She slips under the table. Then...wet heat, and… _oh gods,_ she’s sucking at him again. Sucking so sweetly...

He must stop her from doing this reckless thing, but he can’t move or speak. He’s aware of nothing but her mouth, her tongue. 

“Would you look at that,” he hears someone say from across the room. “Someone’s found a willing whore.”

“She’s an eager one all right. I wish I had a mouth like that to fuck.” 

Rowland immediately spends in his Lady’s mouth, only barely suppressing a groan. 

He’s overwhelmed with horror at himself. But she’s giggling. She closes his breeches and pops up from under the table. 

“Quickly! Let us be off!” She scampers for the door, holding onto his hand and continuing to laugh.

In the ten years he has known her, he has never seen her look so free. So happy.

The rest of the day’s ride passes in a fog of confusion. Thinking about what happened in the tavern, Rowland keeps cycling from horror and guilt to arousal, until he realizes that they are two sides of the same thing. 

Thinking about what will come on the morrow, when they reach Dupan, his heart strains almost to the breaking point. 

His Lady’s fire and giddiness fade as they continue their journey. She frequently touches him as they ride, aware of his discomfort, if not knowing the cause.

~~~

“Rowland. _Cedric_ …” she whispers in the dark.

His hands stop their wandering over her body, bare and spread out for him in the makeshift shelter they’ve built in the woods. His breath catches.

It is the first time she’s called him by his given name. It has always been “Instructor,” “my Batman,” or “Rowland.” And recently, “my knight.”

“My lady,” he says. 

“Call me by my name,” she demands.

“I—“ He kisses her mouth. _“Adara,”_ he whispers against her lips. 

“I don’t want this journey to end,” she says. “I don’t want to be a prisoner in Dupan. This might be our last night together. Are you not to travel back, to join the army at the southern border?”

“I will find a way to be with you...Adara.”

“How? I will be a hostage. And likely soon a bride. I do not wish to marry. And no one who must marry me will be happier for it.”

“The alliance...”

“The alliance can go hang,” she says petulantly. “Why is it decreed that alliances must be forged in the wombs of unwilling women? Cedric,” she says, gripping his arms. “Enter me. Take me. If I am no longer ‘virgin,’ they will not want me. I can be free.” She pops up from the bed, tries to push him down onto it. 

“How I long to. But we must not, Adara. Ask anything of me, but not that, for I am sworn never to harm you.” 

She rolls into a ball, weeping. He resumes his slow caresses then. Until she removes her hands from her face and gazes at him, her eyes still bright with tears. 

“I have a plan,” she says.

She tells it to him.

Then she pulls him on top of her, and the rest of the long, sweet night is filled with the music of their whispers and their pleasure.

~~~

“We were not told of a servant accompanying you,” says the armsman who receives them at the gate of the royal city.

Adara straightens her shoulders and looks on him sternly, her training as an officer serving her in good stead.

“Are you suggesting that a _Princess of Maddox,_ who is here to _seal the alliance_ between our two kingdoms, should come to her new home, where she is to be _betrothed_ to one of your Princes, without the maidservant she has had from childhood?” she says, putting command into her voice. 

Her voice rises then, until she is almost screaming. “Would your superiors strip her of _everything_ that is familiar to her? You might as well strip her of her clothing, her dignity, and her _virginity_ as well! Come, maidservant. Let us remove our clothing and allow this man to do as he will with us, for we are now nothing more than beasts under his feet.”

She pulls up her garments to bare her thighs and begins to tear at them. Rowland also plucks frantically at the flowing raiment he has borrowed from her, although he is careful not to touch his veil. 

“Stop, I pray you, my Lady!” shouts the armsman, who has turned beet red with embarassment and panic. He goes to his knees before her, covering his eyes. “Please, I meant no offense!” 

Adara lets her garments fall. She breathes heavily and the anger remains on her face. 

“You may rise, armsman,” she says to him. “Show me and my maidservant to my chambers. We have had a trying journey and would rest.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the armsman says, and beckons to a servant loitering nearby, watching the drama unfold. “Servant, take them to the East Wing.”

She turns away from the armsman as if he has ceased to exist. “Leave me once you have shown me there,” she orders the servant. “I will see no one today, noble or servant. You may wait upon me on the morrow.”

“Yes, my Lady,” says the servant. 

In her chamber, having ascertained they are not observed, Adara and Cedric embrace. 

“Soon the rumors of my overwrought furor will spread across the kingdom,” Adara tells him. “No prince who values his serenity will want me.”

They lean their foreheads together, and begin giggling quietly.


End file.
